


Targaryen Violet

by tedious



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Gen, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:48:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29304492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tedious/pseuds/tedious
Summary: If the Dragon Queen's eyes are Targaryen violet, she is the Mad King's daughter. The Mad King, who killed Sansa's grandfather and uncle.If the Dragon Queen's eyes are Targaryen violet, she is Prince Rhaegar's sister. Prince Rhaegar, who kidnapped and raped Sansa's aunt.If the Dragon Queen's eyes are Targaryen violet, she is the blood of Aegon the Conqueror. Aegon, who took all of Westeros and was a good and just king.If the Dragon Queen's eyes are Targaryen violet, then this is all real.
Relationships: Sansa Stark & Daenerys Targaryen, Sansa Stark & Missandei, Sansa Stark/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 7
Kudos: 34





	Targaryen Violet

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally a part of a longfic I'm currently writing. However, I'm replanning things and this scene was one of the things cut and replaced, which is why the character of Willem Sand and the ship "Bastard's Blue" are both mentioned without introduction or development. I loved this scene despite having to cut it though, so I decided to just make it a little one shot. You don't need the context of the longfic at all, just to know that Sansa was spirited away before Joffrey's wedding by Varys and sent to Meereen aboard a small smuggler's ship with a man who Sansa never saw but talked to and heard reports of Daenerys from, Willem Sand.

Sansa bathed slowly that last day on the Bastard’s Blue. Willem Sand had woken her shortly after the sun rose, telling her that they would be at the port by midday. He had put her cold food outside her door along with a pail of lukewarm water, and Sansa had broken her fast slowly.  
She dipped her hair into the pail and washed long auburn strands clean with the sweet smelling soap the Spider had given her, then took the washcloth that had been soaking in the pail and scrubbed all over her body. When she was finished she stood naked in the cold cabin of the ship until she was dry.   
Sansa dressed slowly too. Between the four gowns that Lord Varys had provided for her, she chose the black one. The long shift went on first, and the black silk felt like water against her raw skin. It went down to her feet, just long enough to touch the floor without dragging. The petticoat came next - layer upon layer of varying shades of red silk so sheer they were almost pink. The layers swished and swirled as she moved, and when the black gown with the ruby button on the high, structured neck came on she felt almost like the queen she was going to meet.   
Once upon a time Sansa would have delighted at a gown so magnificent, so clearly expensive. Now she felt only the cold, a remnant of winter curled inside her where bubbling warmth would have been just a year ago.  
Sansa brushed her hair until it gleamed, pinned it as elaborately as she could with the braided silver pin that had been given to her, and waited. 

Willem Sand stood at the door of her cabin when she opened it. In all the weeks she had been aboard the Bastard’s Blue since Joff’s wedding and her subsequent kidnapping, she had never seen the man; she had talked to him from behind the safety of her door and only retrieved the food he set outside it when she heard his retreating footsteps. The younger Sansa, the one who had believed in knights and songs, had heard his soft, deep voice and kind words and prayed for him to be a handsome man - a knight who had come to take her from Joff.   
He was not. Willem Sand was well past forty, with a hooked nose and gray hair. He was stout as well, and had thick arms and legs and corded scars down his neck. She saw the kindness in his brown eyes, though, and trusted him now more than she would have had he looked a prince like Joff had.   
He looked at her appreciatively, but without lust. “You look all a princess, my lady,” he said. “And now I shall take you to the man who will escort you to the Queen.”  
The chill was back in Sansa with a vengeance then, curled back around her heart where it had released at the sight of the man who had come to be her friend. She allowed Willem Sand to take her arm, and they disembarked the Bastard’s Blue together.  
At the edge of the dock stood a man in gilded armor, with a white cloak and shield. When he removed the winged helm that covered his face, Sansa was somehow not surprised to see the familiar face of Ser Barristan Selmy.   
She had not known Ser Barristan in King’s Landing in the short time she had been there before King Robert’s death, but she rushed to him all the same, freeing her arm from Willem Sand. Ser Barristan seemed shocked when she threw her arms around him, but he tentatively patted her on the back all the same. When the rushing had cleared from her head, Sansa could hear him murmuring to her.   
“There now, child,” he had been saying, “All will be right now.”  
“Truly, Ser?” she asked, looking up at him. She had not remembered him being this tall when he had shadowed the King in the Red Keep.   
“It will be,” he swore. “Queen Daenerys is a good woman, the same as her brother Rhaegar before her. She will treat you as a beloved guest and friend, I have no doubt.”  
Sansa trusted him so that it was not until she had said her goodbyes to Willem Sand and perched upon the mare that Ser Barristan had brought for her that she remembered what Prince Rhaegar had been, and what he had done to her aunt Lyanna.

The great Pyramid of Meereen was daunting like nothing Sansa had ever seen, and the throne room at its zenith more so. The strange soldiers with the spiked helms had waved Sansa and Ser Barristan in at once, and she could not help but stare around the vast room as Ser Barristan led her to the base of the stairs that led up to where Sansa would have thought a throne would be. There was no throne, however - just an ebony bench, and the queen.  
King Robert had relaxed upon the Iron Throne, leaning back against the back of it, heedless of the still-sharp swords. They had never cut him, but mayhaps that was only because they could not slice through the layers of fat that surrounded him. Joff, well...Joff had sprawled on the throne, lounged like a cat lying in the sun.   
Queen Daenerys Targaryen did neither of these things. She sat ramrod straight, perched at the very edge of the seat. The bench had no back, and it was far smaller than any royal seat Sansa had seen. It made the queen look very small, and Sansa realized with a start that this girl-queen was only a few years older than herself. She was Ro-she was Jon’s age, though she did not look it.   
The stories Willem’s men had passed to him to translate to her had all been right: Daenerys Targaryen was perhaps the most beautiful woman Sansa had ever seen. She was petite, with a smooth heart-shaped face and full lips. The gown she wore was stunning too; white silk, and a crown featuring what Sansa thought was three dragons. Her hair was cropped surprisingly short for a noble lady, barely brushing her throat. Strands seemingly at random had silver bells braided into them, and they tinkled gently when she looked down at Sansa. Sansa could not see if her eyes were truly the lilac that Willem’s men had claimed, but something inside of her desperately hoped they were.   
“Ser Barristan,” greeted the queen with a nod of her head. “I missed you this morning.”  
“Forgive me, Your Grace,” said Ser Barristan, bowing deeply.  
“Do not forget your vows, Ser. You have sworn yourself to my Queensguard. I have not forgotten what befell the first man to hold that honor.”  
“Nor have I, Your Grace. I awoke this morning to a note in my chambers informing me that I must go to the docks at once. There I found a man that gave me information. He sent me to a certain ship, and I was delivered a...ward, if you will.”  
Daenerys’ gaze turned on Sansa in truth then. “I take it this is her. What is your name, child? Speak truly; I have had too many tell me a false name for my tastes.” The queen’s voice was light, but Sansa had no doubt that she would not be given lenience were she to tell a falsehood.  
Sansa had no choice but to answer truthfully then, although she was more afraid now than she had ever been, save when Ser Ilyn Payne had taken off her lord father’s head. “Sansa Stark, Your Grace,” she answered, and found her voice trembling as she spoke.   
The queen examined her then with a queer look on her face. “And are you not wed to the usurper Joffrey Baratheon, Lady Stark?” she asked evenly.   
“Your Grace,” put in Ser Barristan, “That was part of the news I learned upon fetching Lady Stark. Joffrey Baratheon is dead.”  
The queen could not disguise her shock. “Was there news on the manner of his death?” she asked.   
“Poison, Your Grace.”  
Daenerys nodded. “You are a widow, Lady Sansa,” she remarked with ill-disguised satisfaction.   
Sansa shook her head. “No, your grace, we were never wed.”  
The Dragon Queen raised a brow. “You are of an age to wed, are you not?”  
“I am fourteen, your grace,” responded Sansa. She nearly bit her tongue to stop herself from saying something childish like ‘almost fifteen’. “Joff was wed to Margaery Tyrell in my stead, and I to his uncle, Lord Tyrion Lannister the Imp.” She could not disguise her disgust at her lord husband’s name.   
Ser Barristan seemed surprised at that news. “I had not heard of this, my lady. Why is Lord Tyrion not with you now?”  
Sansa shrugged almost petulantly. “Willem Sand heard tell in Lys that he was blamed for Joff’s death. I suppose he was not as important to the Spider.”  
“Who is this spider you speak of, and who is the Imp?” asked the queen impatiently.   
Ser Barristan bowed his head in apology. “Lord Varys is the Spider, the Master of Whisperers in court in King’s Landing. He was your father’s own trusted advisor. A man to be feared, certainly. He was the one who sent the Lady Sansa to you, my Queen. As for Tyrion Lannister...he is the youngest son of Lord Tywin, a dwarf, and Master of Coin the last I heard. He was Hand of the King to Joffrey Baratheon for a time after I left. He crushed Stannis Baratheon’s forces on the Blackwater, I heard tell of it straight across the Narrow Sea; destroyed his ships with wildfire as Lord Tywin and the Tyrell host crushed them on land. I’ve no doubt the Spider is biding his time before sending Lord Tyrion to you as well; it would be a waste to let him perish for one such as Joffrey Baratheon.”  
“And do you trust either of these men?”  
Ser Barristan snorted, an unseemly sound for a knight. “Trust them? Gods, no. But Lord Varys is a dear friend to Illyrio Mopatis, who sent me to you and housed you for a time. And Lord Tyrion is a Lannister, but he has no love for his family any more than you or I. Lord Tywin is not a man that fosters love.”  
“But does he foster loyalty?” pushed the queen.   
“No,” said Barristan with certainty, “At least not from Tyrion Lannister. I’ve known the man many years, though not well, and I’ve known Tywin longer and better. The son holds no love for the father, and precious little loyalty. From all I saw, queen Cersei was downright poisonous to him.”  
“She was,” blurted Sansa, and then felt no small amount of horror when she realized she had spoken out of turn. She was certain her face was bright red, and could feel her hands trembling worse than even before.   
“You do not care for your goodsister?” asked the queen.   
“N-no, Your Grace,” responded Sansa. She thought for a moment before coming to a decision. Daenerys Targaryen held no more love for the Lannisters than she did. “Cersei is evil, I think, and I know Joff was. I’m glad he’s dead.”  
The queen seemed surprised to hear the venom from her voice. “And Tyrion Lannister?” she asked, with a soothing softness to her voice. “Did he mistreat you?”  
That question confounded Sansa. Surely he had never mistreated her, as he was her lord husband and free to do as he saw fit with her. Even besides that, he had never taken her to bed, had never even touched her save the once on their wedding night. Lord Tyrion was all she could hope for in a husband, grotesque as he was. He spoke little to her but gently when he did, gave her what she needed, saved his own needs for whores.   
“No,” she said with finality. “I never wished to be married to him, but Lord Tyrion never treated me poorly.”  
Daenerys nodded. She studied Sansa then, looked at her in a way Sansa had never been looked at. All over men looked at her with thinly veiled lust, women with disdain or pity. The queen, however, seemed to be looking into her very soul. Sansa could not help but look back, meet her eyes. She still could not see if they were purple.  
“Missandei,” said the queen suddenly, without looking away from Sansa, “Find Lady Stark a room to stay in. A nice one, mind. She is to be our most honored guest.”  
A girl came out of the shadows from where she had presumably been observing the Queen’s talk with Sansa. “At once, Your Grace,” she told Daenerys, and came to stand by Sansa. “This way, my lady.” Her voice was soft and melodic, and she looked at Sansa with rich brown eyes. Though she looked to be younger than Sansa, the girl seemed to have a quiet intelligence.  
Sansa followed her obediently through corridor after corridor until she could not help but ask questions. “Is the queen very kind?” she questioned with some urgency. She knew she would likely not be able to believe this girl, clearly the queen’s own servant, but she had to ask for her own sanity.   
Missandei nodded with a sweet smile. “Very kind, my lady. She killed my old master, and set his city aflame with her dragons; a kindness to all enslaved there. Slavery is no more in Astapor, where she found me, and it is no more in Meereen as well.”  
Sansa was quite pleased to hear she would not be a slave, for she had heard all sorts of queer stories of Essos from Old Nan when she was a girl. A prisoner was far better, she thought. She had been a slave in King’s Landing, a sort of slave that she would not be again. Still, the word that took her attention was dragons.  
“And she does have dragons, truly?” Sansa queried. Perhaps it was folly to ask all of these question to the queen’s own servant, but she had become so used to asking what pleased her aboard the Bastard’s Blue that she found possibly dangerous questions easier than letting the fear stew, as it had in King’s Landing.   
“She does have dragons, my lady. Three.” Missandei looked around the hall briefly before turning back to Sansa. “I’ve heard talk that they are Aegon the Conqueror’s three beasts born again.”  
“Does Her Grace ride upon them?”  
Missandei shook her head. “No; they are small yet, but they grow still. Perhaps someday Queen Daenerys will fly.” She looked off dreamily for a moment, then shook her head as if to clear it. “Forgive me, my lady; it is not becoming of me to gossip so. It is only that you are the first girl of an age with me to come to the pyramid to stay, and I am quite pleased. I am only Her Grace’s handmaid, but I am quite busy and have few opportunities to talk to anyone in fun.”  
Sansa was surprised. Missandei looked so young, yet when she spoke she seemed older than Sansa by far. She smiled shyly at the handmaid. “I would be very pleased to be your friend, Missandei. I have been to a new place only once before, and I made few friends there.”  
Missandei grinned brightly at her then, and Sansa could not help but grin back. 

The room they put Sansa in was far finer than she had expected, less a room than a suite containing a bedchamber, a wash room containing a large copper tub, a sitting room, and a small private dining room.   
The first thing Sansa did when Missandei left her in the bedchamber and took her leave back to Queen Daenerys was plop down on the mattress. It was far softer than the hard straw bed she had been made to sleep on during her weeks on the Bastard’s Blue, but firmer than the soft thing that she had slept upon in King’s Landing. That bed she had seemed to almost melt into, leaving her to wake with a sore back.   
This bed reminded her of her own in Winterfell, firm but yielding, only with fine blue linen blankets instead of furs. Sansa sank down into it immediately, and without entirely meaning to, she fell asleep.

Sansa woke to knocking on her door around dusk. Springing out of bed, she frantically smoothed her slept-on hair down with her fingers, and opened the door with more nervousness than perhaps was necessary. Outside, however, was only Missandei and one of the pointed-helm guards bearing her chest from the Spider. Sansa ushered the guard in, and he set the chest down upon the small table in her bedchamber. He must be very strong, Sansa thought, for that chest is very heavy.   
Missandei smiled sweetly at her. “Her Grace wishes that you would sup with her tonight.”  
Sansa gulped and nodded, finding herself unable to respond properly. She did not know if it would be only the queen and herself, or if her whole household would be attending a dinner. Nevertheless, she found herself in no position to reject the offer.   
“Do you require any time to change?” asked Missandei.   
“Do you think I ought to?” Sansa questioned nervously.   
Missandei only shook her head. “You look very becoming, my lady,” she said, “And I’m sure the queen will appreciate your gown.”  
Truly, Sansa had nearly forgotten the gown she had put on at the start of the day, the one that felt like it belonged to a Targaryen princess of old. This day has been so long.  
“Might I refresh my hair?” she asked tentatively.   
“Would you like me to do it?” asked Missandei, having lit up at the mention of hair. “I wash and braid Her Grace’s hair each morning, I would be so pleased to do yours. I’ve not seen a red quite like it.”  
Sansa blushed at the compliment. “Thank you,” she replied, “it is quite like my mother’s.”  
Missandei led her to sit on the bed after Sansa had retrieved her comb from the Spider’s chest. She went to work on Sansa’s hair with vigor. “I am sorry that you are separated from your mother. My mother died many years ago, before I was enslaved.”  
Sansa felt her heart stutter. She had not truly thought about how much she missed Mother for so long, and having another comb her hair in Mother’s place...the reminder hurt her. “My mother died before I came here,” she responded quietly, “So we are much the same.”  
The comb stopped momentarily against her hair, then began its trip down again. “I am very sorry, my lady.” said Missandei, and neither of them spoke until Sansa’s hair was finished.   
Missandei dug back through the chest to retrieve the mirror that was here, and held it up for Sansa to see. Her hair was beautiful; it was flowing down her back, long and silky, and atop her head a neat braid had been formed and secured with the silver pin. As Sansa touched it briefly, Missandei looked to the floor bashfully.  
“In the culture of the Dothraki horselords, a braid is given when one wins a victory. From what Ser Barristan has told Her Grace of the place you came from, your arrival here seems a victory of its own sort.”  
Sansa was overcome with a queer sort of feeling as she took to her feet and allowed Missandei to guide her through the winding halls of the pyramid to where she would meet the queen for supper. It was a victory to be free of King’s Landing, she realized, one she had not realized until the handmaid, her friend, had mentioned it. She was a hostage still, there was no doubt in her mind as to that, but here perhaps she would be a happy hostage, mayhaps even one that could provide the queen with information to use against the Lannisters.  
It surprised Sansa how much she wished to see that proud lion fall, what lengths she suddenly realized she would go to in order to bring Cersei to her knees. She wished, more than anything, to watch the Kingslayer beg for the queen regent’s life as she had begged for her father’s. These thoughts all came to her head for the first time, and yet none of them frightened her.   
The dining room Missandei led her to was small and intimate, only slightly larger than the one in Sansa’s own chambers. The table seated only six and was laid lavishly, with Queen Daenerys seated at the head.   
“Lady Sansa,” she greeted warmly, “Please, sit.”  
She gestured to the seat directly next to her, and Sansa sat with some trepidation. There was a plate in front of her, and Sansa stared at it with dread. Was she expected to eat, to speak to the queen that was holding her here? Sansa was grateful to be out of King’s Landing, but the Dragon Queen still frightened her.   
“There’s plenty here,” said Queen Daenerys, motioning to the spread before them. “Please, take what you will. I hear you were on a ship for some weeks; I expect you did not eat well there.”  
The spread was quite magnificent, Sansa had to admit. There was quail roasted with garlic, cloves, and spices Sansa didn’t recognize, great rolls drenched in cream and sprinkled with cinnamon, greens tossed with a fleshy purple fruit Sansa could not identify, and plenty of fruits. Sansa took a small bit of everything and filled her cup halfway with spiced hot wine. Daenerys watched her with keen eyes, tearing into a roll.   
“Thank you, Your Grace,” said Sansa. “I’ve eaten only cold food for several weeks, something hot will be quite welcome.”  
The queen smiled at her, though it did not reach her eyes. “Of course, my lady. I understand going without better than most, and I would be a bad hostess to not allow you a chance to again become used to hot food once more.”  
“Your hospitality is already better than Cersei Lannister’s, Your Grace, I assure you,” Sansa japed.  
Daenerys raised an eyebrow at that. “Is it?” she asked. “I’ve heard a great many things of Cersei Lannister. As someone who knew her, I would be inclined to ask you how many of these rumors carry any semblance of truth.”  
“All of them, no doubt,” joked Sansa, and she found that her hatred of the queen mother far outweighed her care for propriety in front of the queen. “I’m nearly certain that the rumors of her and the Kingslayer are true, if that is what Your Grace is asking.”  
Daenerys inclined her head. “That was part of it. I’ve heard she is beautiful as well, and cruel.”  
A chill made its way down Sansa’s spine. “She is both of those things,” she said, toneless. She took a bite of the quail to stop herself from saying anything worse. It was delicious, but tasted almost dusty in her mouth when thoughts of King’s Landing arose.   
“I do not intend to be a cruel queen, Lady Sansa.”  
Sansa inclined her head. “Of course not, Your Grace,” she said. Some time passed as they ate in silence before the queen spoke again.  
“You do not believe me,” said Queen Daenerys. “Allow me to rephrase. I do not intend to be cruel, as either a queen or a woman. I will not cause you any harm, my lady.”  
“That is very kind of you, Your Grace.”   
Sansa did not believe the queen, in truth. She had grown up on tales of the Mad King who burnt her grandfather alive and watched as her uncle suffocated himself trying to free his father, tales of the valiant Prince Rhaegar kidnapping and raping her lady aunt. The Dragon Queen was beautiful, as the men of the Bastard’s Blue had reported to her, but she was likely terrible as well. Sansa did not look to see if her eyes were violet - she did not want to know. The violet would make her a Targaryen, for better or for worse. The violet would make it real.  
Daenerys looked at her and sighed. “Perhaps I shall persuade you in time. We may as well have something sweet to eat now, to celebrate your arrival.” She snapped out a word in a flowing foreign tongue, and a servant came in. Another word, and the servant was gone again. When Sansa did not comment, the queen took it upon herself to explain.   
“I had a treat made, since we have a new guest,” she said with a smile. Her lips were full and stained plum red from fruit.   
Sansa smiled back, the smile she knew was disarming in Joff’s worst moods. “That is very kind, Your Grace. I am not worthy of such an honor.”  
“That is nonsense,” insisted Daenerys, “You are a lady, and an honored guest beside. It would be unforgivably rude of me to not offer anything nice.”  
Sansa merely smiled, made her thanks again, and took a sip of her wine. The beer she had been served each day on the Bastard’s Blue had opened her palate more; where in King’s Landing she had hardly been able to stomach as much wine as Cersei forced upon her, the hot spiced wine now was soothing compared to the strong brew that had been the only thing aboard the ship.   
When the servant came back in, Sansa’s reservations for the treat the Queen had prepared dissipated. “Lemon cakes!” Sansa exclaimed, forgetting for a moment the company she was keeping. When she went to make her apologies to Queen Daenerys, the woman merely smiled.   
“They are rather my favorites,” the queen admitted. “For a time I lived in a house in Braavos, and there was a lemon tree outside. The cook would make lemon cakes on my name day each year.”  
Daenerys looked strangely sad as she spoke. With a start, Sansa realized it was nostalgia. Suddenly she felt the need to offer a piece of her own history, to even the scales.   
“Lemon cakes are my favorites as well, Your Grace,” Sansa offered. “They made them for me in Winterfell. There were some in King’s Landing every now and then, but they were never the same. Too sweet...”  
Much like everything else in King’s Landing. Too sweet...for a time.   
The queen must have seen the sadness written on her face, because she clapped her hands once and gestured to the plates. “Well, I hope these are not too sweet for your liking. I’ve found that they’re quite similar to my own from Braavos, so I fear they may be slightly different.”  
Her voice was apologetic, and between that and her excited gesture Sansa found herself thinking of Margaery. Oh, she only hoped that she was safe. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed to her gods, the old gods of the North, that the girl who had become her dearest friend was well and free in that viper’s nest. When she opened them, she took a bite, as if to cement her short prayer.  
“Oh,” Sansa breathed, and all of a sudden she was in Winterfell again. “They’re just like the ones in the North.”  
Queen Daenerys seemed delighted. “Wonderful! I hadn’t known they were your favorites, but I’m glad you approve.”  
“All too much,” said Sansa with a giggle, already reaching for another. “Back in Winterfell Father wouldn’t ever let me have more than three. He always said my mother would be furious, but truly I think he may have liked them himself.”  
“Your father was Lord Eddard Stark, yes?” asked the queen casually.  
Sansa’s heart froze in her chest. She had known this would come. “Yes, Your Grace,” she said cautiously, all cheer from the lemon cakes gone.   
“And you are aware that he helped lead the rebellion that killed my own father and brother, and led myself and my remaining brother to be exiled?” There was no ice in the queen’s voice, but Sansa knew that this would lead nowhere good.  
At least she was back on even footing now. The words came to Sansa easily from all her time in King’s Landing spent parroting the same sentiment. “My father was a traitor, Your Grace,” she said evenly, “and he died a traitor’s death on the steps of Baelor’s Great Sept. You have my loyalty, I swear. I was not yet born during the rebellion, and I would beg that you not hold my father’s sins to me.”  
The desperation she felt must have bled into her voice, for the queen seemed alarmed. “Stop, please,” said the queen with alarm. “I was going to say that Ser Barristan, who served on my father’s Kingsguard, has told me of the man he was. I wished to tell you that I hold no blame to your father, nor to you. My brother Rhaegar was a good man by all accounts and I blame the Usurper Robert Baratheon for killing him, but your father was only trying to avenge his own father and brother. You have nothing to fear from me, my lady, I swear it.”  
Sansa could not stop herself. “Your brother Rhaegar kidnapped and raped my aunt Lyanna, and she died alone in Dorne while my father watched, Your Grace. Forgive me that I do not mourn him.”  
After she spoke she felt a cold wash over her like none she had felt before. This was not Joffrey, who would have Ser Meryn beat her and then forget she spoke at all; this woman, this queen, had dragons - dragons that had burnt cities and could burn her with even greater ease.  
And yet Daenerys only paled and shook her head. The bells in her hair tinkled, a sound too light and cheerful for the moment. “No, I did not know, forgive me,” said the queen. “Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah Mormont before him both spoke kindly of Rhaegar. I never knew...there is so much I do not know...”  
Somehow, Sansa believed her. “It is why Robert rebelled, Your Grace. My aunt was his love and his betrothed, and Prince Rhaegar took her from him.”  
“Forgive my words then, my lady.” The queen sighed forlornly, and Sansa felt a strange pity for her. “I know nothing of the land I wish to rule. I know little of its history, less of its people, and nothing even of my own family, it would seem.”  
Sansa watched the Dragon Queen for a long moment that seemed to stretch longer still. Bells in her hair, distressed for a lack of knowledge. Sansa thought to King’s Landing, where surely Cersei ruled in all but name. She thought of Joffrey lounging on the Iron Throne, thought of Tommen sitting with Ser Pounce on his lap. That boy is no king, she thought. An image of Margaery then came to her unbidden, with roses in her hair and a gown of green and pink clinging to her frame. Finally, her mind went to Winterfell, to home. This queen would bring her back there, Sansa was suddenly certain. Daenerys Targaryen would take Westeros, and Sansa would go home.   
“I could teach you,” said Sansa uncertainly. “Of Westeros, that is. A septa taught me history and of houses great and small my whole life. If you wish it, Your Grace, I would teach you what I know.”  
Daenerys looked up at her. Sansa avoided her eyes. She still didn’t want to see the color, didn’t want to find that she was only ordinary after all, that she was not what Willem Sand’s men had spoken of in hushed whispers.  
“I...I would be honored, Lady Sansa. Thank you, truly. I think that we shall be great friends, if you would like.”  
With those words, thoughts of Joffrey and Margaery and home fell away, and Sansa looked up.   
Daenerys Targaryen’s eyes were violet like Sansa had never seen.

**Author's Note:**

> And that was it! I'm still working on my longfic which is basically "Sansa in Meereen with Dany". It'll be fun, so I hope everyone's ready for more daensa in the future. There's not too much book only daensa content so I'm trying to provide! A big thank you to everyone on the discord server who encouraged me to write this. If you want more daensa/asoiaf content, my tumblr is @jumbojaime!


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